"Er--would you read me aloud the last chapter we finished"--I barked at
last lamely.
She turned to fetch the script from the other room--.
I must apologize to her, I knew.
She came back and sat down stiffly, prepared to begin.
"I am sorry I was such an uncouth brute yesterday," I said--"It was good
of you to come back--. Will you forgive me?"
She bowed again. I almost hated her at that moment, she was making me
feel so much--A foolish arrogance rose in me-"We had better get to work I suppose," I went on pettishly.
She began to read--how soft her voice is, and how perfectly
cultivated.--Her family must be very refined gentlefolk--ordinary
English typists have not that indescribable distinction of tone.
What voices mean to one!--The delight of that exquisite sound of
refinement in the pronunciation. Miss Sharp never misplaces an
inflection or slurs a word, she never uses slang, and yet there is
nothing pedantic in her selection of language--it is just as if her
habitual associates were all of the same class as herself, and that she
never heard coarse speech.--Who can she be--?
The music of her reading calmed me--how I wish we could be friends--!
"How old is Madame Bizot's grandchild?" I asked abruptly, interrupting.
"Six months," answered Miss Sharp without looking up.
"You like children?"
"Yes--."
"Perhaps you have brothers and sisters?"
"Yes--."
I knew that I was looking at her hungrily--and that she was purposely
keeping her lids lowered--.
"How many?"
"Two--."
The tone said, "I consider your questions impertinent--."
I went on-"Brothers?"
"One brother."
"And a sister?"
"Yes."
"How old?"
"Eleven and thirteen."
"That is quite a gap between your ages then?"
She did not think it necessary to reply to this--there was the faintest
impatience in the way she moved the manuscript.
I was so afraid to annoy her further in case she should give me notice
to go, that I let her have her way, and returned to work.
But I was conscious of her presence--thrillingly conscious of her
presence all the morning. I never once was able to take the work
naturally, it was will alone which made me grind out the words.
There was no sign of nervousness in Miss Sharp's manner--I simply did
not exist for her--I was a bore, a selfish useless bore of an employer,
who was paying her twice as much as anyone else would, and she must in
return give the most perfect service. As a man I had no meaning. As a
wounded human being she had no pity for me--but I did not want her
pity--what did I want?--I cannot write it--I cannot face it--. Am I to
have a new torment in my life?--Desiring the unattainable?--Eating my
heart out; not that woman can never really love me again, but that, well
or ill, the consideration of one woman is beyond my reach--.